


Under Stars

by simaetha



Series: radiance [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alignment Swap, Gen, Violence, family arguments, the extremely low bar set by "things go better than canon", why fight Morgoth when you could be fighting each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 14:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5669710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simaetha/pseuds/simaetha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Return of the Noldor.</p><p><i>"Yes, Fëanáro," Nolofinwë says, "explain how </i>courage<i> will be sufficient to defeat an ambush by Moringotto."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Stars

**Author's Note:**

> A brief lexicon of Quenya names and terms used in this fic, where not otherwise clear from context or already referred to frequently in Part 1:
> 
> Nolofinwë - Fingolfin  
> Arafinwë - Finarfin  
> Tyelkormo - Celegorm  
> Curufinwë - Curufin  
> Maitimo - Maedhros  
> Artanis - Galadriel's father-name  
> Valarauko (plural Valaraukar) - Balrog  
> Findekáno - Fingon  
> Turukáno - Turgon  
> Makalaurë - Maglor

" _Elu Thingol_ ," Fëanáro is saying - pacing in the lamplight; a look of intense, abstracted focus on his face. The mail he wears gleams as he moves, all shining burnished links. "Elwë Thindicollo! Still a King in the home of our ancestors - we need to send messengers at once."

Standing at the hastily-constructed table, Nolofinwë rests his hands upon it, palms flattened and fingers spread, watching his brother as he moves. "I agree, Fëanáro - it's excellent news. But I do wonder if we should wait until we understand the situation better to send people so far."

" _Delay_ can only strengthen the Enemy - "

"I think we should take a little time to settle in, as well," Eärwen says. She sits barefoot, legs crossed, on one of the storage chests stacked up by the walls of the tent; dressed in sturdy leggings and tunic, her dark eyes striking against the silver fall of her hair.

"Of course I want to meet my uncle - I think Arafinwë and I should be the ones to act as envoys, actually. But from what the Grey Folk were saying, this _land-of-the-fence_ is much further from the coast, and there might still be half an army's worth of Orcs in the way."

"Yes, this _Doriath_." Fëanáro's expression is of one of inward-turning concentration as he sounds out the syllables, articulating them carefully. "I _must_ speak more with their loremasters here."

He laughs, abruptly, something brightening in his eyes.

"So - the Valar warn us of defeat, and sorrow - but we come here to find our friends of old await us here, and have built their own great realms in the land that first belonged to us. So much for all their talk of our helplessness!"

The tentatively-sketched map on the table shows mountains; forests; rivers. Eärwen smiles, giving Fëanáro a fond look, as Nolofinwë moves to trace a line down towards the south-western coast.

"We know Moringotto's forces came down _here_ \- this is where the _people-of-the-shoreline_ are, and their Lord Shipwright was pressed hard, back to the coast. To reach Elwë, we have to cross the mountains _here_ \- "

Fëanáro makes a swift, dismissive gesture, turning on his heel to face Nolofinwë. More slender than Nolofinwë, with less breadth in the shoulders, and a little less tall, it is nonetheless Fëanáro whose presence fills the tent; who draws the eye, hard to look away from.

"I forget," he says, "how little you travelled in Aman, half-brother. The journey is entirely manageable, with a little courage - "

The line of Nolofinwë's mouth hardens, a coldness settling into his expression; unnoticed, Eärwen winces, closing her eyes for a moment.

"Yes, Fëanáro," Nolofinwë says, "explain how _courage_ will be sufficient to defeat an ambush by Moringotto. If you really think your camping-trips in Valinor are enough to prepare for travelling through this Middle-earth in the darkness, with all his creatures arrayed against you - "

Something flickers, in Fëanáro's face; before anger overrides it. "If you think defeat is inevitable, _Nolofinwë_ , you might have stayed in Tirion, and spared us all your sanctimonious cavilling - "

"Oh, for - will you two _stop_ putting the worst possible construction on everything the other says," Eärwen says, standing up and shaking back her hair, irritation clear in her features as the others turn to look at her. "Fëanáro, if a few weeks or months make _that_ much of a difference, we have a problem _anyway_ \- "

A shout, from further out, towards the edges of the camp. All three glance towards the opening of the tent, Eärwen breaking off from her speech; while Fëanáro and his brother look, for a moment, very much alike, both of them tensing, shoulders set, eyes narrowing.

"That sounded - " and "Was _that_ -" they both start to say at once, as Eärwen tilts her head, listening to the rising noise outside; before Fëanáro crosses to the opening in a few swift paces, lifting the tent-awning in time to almost collide with the runner as she reaches them, breathless.

"It's - at the northern, the northern - " the runner pants out, and then pauses to draw in a gasping breath, white in the face, her pupils heavily dilated, swallowing her eyes until the irises show only as a thin pale ring around them.

Fëanáro takes in her appearance at a glance; moves to set his hands on her shoulders, pulling something like calm over himself as he meets her gaze.

" _Breathe_ ," he says, and waits a moment. "Now, _tell me what happened_."

But Nolofinwë and Eärwen are already beginning to move, and there is no surprise at all in Fëanáro's face as the runner begins to speak -

" _Attack_ \- "

***

From the eastern foothills of the Mountains of Shadow, the view stretches out northward across the plains, shadows and starlight. A cold wind ripples through the dark grass, thick blades that shine a deep blue-green under lamplight; in the distance, one of the strange, wary creatures that graze from it lifts its head, a brief silhouette of long legs and serrated, arching horns, before turning and plunging away into the night. Nearby, the tethered horses snort, nervously, tossing their manes and tugging against the ropes.

And, in the north: the red glow of Thangorodrim, the Enemy's mountain-fortress, a choking fog of poison hanging over its peaks.

"Coming up along the line of the Sirion," Aelwen is saying, baring her teeth in a vicious grin, "summoned away from their attack on the havens of the Falas. They've no idea our scouts saw them, and yes, I'd stake my life on that and gladly."

Fëanáro himself is smiling grimly, a dark satisfaction showing in his face. "If we keep our forces split," he says, "and circle round - Nolofinwë's command is _here_ \- "

The name comes out as _Golfin'_ ,[1] in the dialect spoken around Mithrim. The war-council is in the local tongue, out of both courtesy and practicality: _it is for us to learn from those who remained in our ancient home, not to force our ways upon them_ , Fëanáro had said, and proceeded towards fluency with speed, pleasure at the task showing past the grief and anger that had driven him since Formenos.

"I'll go," Tyelkormo suggests, his own grin white and sharp, streaks of dark orc-blood showing ruddy in his pale hair; beside him, Curufinwë smiles, hand falling to the hilt of his sword.

" _Good_. Aelwen, what else do you know about the Enemy's forces? How many can he have in reserve, after this?"

Shorter and slighter than the Noldor around her, plainly-clothed in soft grey, Aelwen nonetheless meets Fëanáro's gaze unhesitatingly, her expression fierce. One of the leaders of the Mithrim-folk, the necklace of carven ivory at her throat is worked from orc-tusks - _my own kills_ , she had said proudly, at one of their first meetings - and she carries her bow on her back and a quiver of white-fletched arrows at her hip, the steel arrowheads wickedly barbed.

"We can't know," Aelwen says; but her eyes are still bright, her speech undaunted. "But he had Lord Círdan besieged, before this - why draw his forces away from there, if he had enough to face us here? No, I think we've seen all there is, or close to it." Her smile widens, and Fëanáro returns it.

"Then we need to consider what follows," Fëanáro says. There is a terrible eagerness in his expression. "We will have no better chance than this - _now_ , while he is still unprepared, and has had no opportunity to replenish his losses. If once we reach Angband itself - "

Maitimo steps forward. "Father - " he says; making Fëanáro pause to look at him. In the starlight, that dims and darkens the red of Maitimo's hair, they look much alike, grey-eyed and clad in shining mail; but where Fëanáro is striking, Maitimo is graceful, tall and elegant, all delicate bone structure and flawless pale skin.

" _Yes_ \- ?" Fëanáro asks, impatient.

Standing among the Noldor, Mairon glances up, drawn out of some internal preoccupation to watch the exchange with analytical interest.

"I do agree," Maitimo says, "and Aelwen's reasoning makes sense to me, as well." He nods briefly at the Grey-elf in acknowledgement. "But - we don't _know_ what's inside his stronghold. We know the Enemy _does_ have forces other than orcs, and there's still whatever power remained there, all the while he was imprisoned - "

"Then we can fight _that_ , too," Fëanáro says, impatient. "If they have had no strength to do more than hide behind his mountain-walls until now - "

"What if it's a trap," Maitimo says; "or - "

"Then we will turn it back on them. Already we have succeeded where the Powers told us to expect failure; if the Enemy thinks it a _strategy_ to allow us to destroy his armies and cut down his creatures, then I suggest we offer him every encouragement to continue in it."

“And if he brings his Maiar against you?” Mairon breaks in, tilting his head to one side. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but – “

“I will not believe,” Fëanáro says coldly, “that we should all hide in fear of the unknown. Do you have specific information you have failed to share with us?”

“Not as such.”

"Then let us _plan_ ," Fëanáro says. "We know enough of mining-technique, and how to prevent cave-ins and avoid weakening the rock above; if we turn that against the Enemy, to undermine his defences - "

Curufinwë gives another grim smile, and Aelwen grins, rocking on her heels a little in anticipation; but Mairon looks contemplative, frowning slightly as he draws back into thought.

"But, Father - " Maitimo starts; and then grinds to a halt, taking in his father's expression, as Fëanáro gives him a long look before returning to his speech.

***

" _Ow_ ," Artanis says, wincing. "Look, can't you just - "

"No, sorry," Tyelperinquar says, studying the dented joints of her gauntlet as he turns over her wrist. "I think I'm going to have to take this apart to get it off. At least it wasn't your arm, Artanis."

" _Fine_ ," Artanis says, tossing her hair and biting her lip; she has the irritated look of someone making a considerable effort to conceal pain. "Well, get it over with, why don't you; I don't have forever to wait around."

Tyelperinquar gives her an annoyed look of his own. "Alright. Can you - "

He pauses, glancing up, as Mairon steps into the makeshift forge; the corner of his mouth crooks upwards as Mairon, ignoring Artanis, moves to him and leans against him, wrapping an arm around his waist and giving him an affectionate look.

"How did the council go?" Tyelperinquar asks; the other makes a dissatisfied noise, ignoring Artanis' glare.

"Predictably, in retrospect. Are you busy?"

" _Yes_ , actually, he was," Artanis says; and Mairon does raise his head at that, meeting her eyes with cool disdain. "Tyelpe, do you think you could - "

"Your manners and courtesy," Mairon says smoothly, in a tone of gentle reproach, "are as much in evidence as always, Artanis. I _was_ speaking to Tyelperinquar - "

Artanis returns his look with one of pure outrage, her lip curling.

" _Your_ idea of courtesy," she snaps, "has absolutely nothing I want to adopt for myself. Of course you expect Tyelpe to drop everything else the moment you happen to want something, never mind anyone else - how he puts up with _you_ I'll never know - "

Mairon straightens, and gives her a look so contemptuous that Artanis goes pale with anger, digging the fingers of her uninjured hand into the workbench so hard the wood creaks; but Tyelperinquar, glancing between them, hisses under his breath and steps across to her, shaking Mairon off.

"Mairon, whatever you're about to say, just - _don't_ ," he says, ignoring the glare Mairon turns on him as he speaks. "Artanis, here, put your arm out like _that_ \- "

Mairon watches Artanis coldly as she meets his gaze, gritting her teeth as Tyelperinquar carefully settles the damaged gauntlet into a vice and begins taking it apart, the metal protesting as he levers the last pieces away. Despite herself, Artanis flinches as the steel comes away from her wrist; the skin there is bruised and abraded, a deep red-purple against the white of compression, blood-drops welling up from the grazed surface.

"You - _Artanis_ ," Tyelperinquar says, "you could have _mentioned_ you were - "

"It's nothing - no, really, Tyelpe," she adds, giving him a reassuring glance. "I'm not even _hurt_ , not compared to the people the healers were treating."

"That's - " Tyelperinquar starts, and hesitates, unhappy realisation crossing his face. "You still ought to get it looked at, Artanis; can't you go see if one of the healers is free by now?"

"Yes," says Mairon, sweetly, "your bravery is _terribly_ impressive, but surely you've made enough of a show of how selfless you are, don't you think?"

" _Mairon_ \- "

" _Fine_ ," Artanis snaps. "I'm leaving. Thank you for _your_ help, Tyelpe."

She turns to go in a swirl of silver-gold braids, throwing a final glare at Mairon as she leaves; he gives her a wide-eyed look of injury that makes her flush with anger, her eyes glittering.

As soon as she crosses the threshold, Mairon turns back to Tyelperinquar, who - gives Mairon a hard look of his own, his mouth a thin line.

"So did you come here just to start a fight with Artanis, or was there something else?" he asks.

"She _does_ make it remarkably easy," Mairon says, tilting his head to one side. "I like your family in general, Tyelpe, but some of them are really rather difficult in the specific."

"I take it you _did_ want to fight with her, then," Tyelperinquar says, narrow-eyed. "If _that's_ all, Mairon, I _am_ busy, as it happens -"

He starts to turn back to the workbench, but Mairon - sighs, and steps across to him, stopping him with a hand at his hip.

"Your grandfather - " he says, and then - pauses, uncharacteristically hesitant.

"If you've been getting into arguments with _him_ , there's really nothing I can do about it," Tyelperinquar says, tightly; but he sets down the tool he had started to pick up.

"Of course not," Mairon says, with a faint smile. "No, don't worry, Tyelpe; I can see that Fëanáro has to make his own decisions, now that I think about it. But tell me more about what _you_ were doing, anyway."

***

Turn, parry, lean away from the next blow and stab downwards -

Resistance, as the edge of the blade grates against bone, but the Orc makes a guttural noise and dies, blood running from its mouth and slicking his sword as he pulls it out of the wound; and Fëanáro turns his horse again to look for the next opponent -

A snap of fangs; he reins the horse back, circles in, controlling his mount with the light touches and shifts of weight learned in a green paddock in Valinor, now used to hold the horse against its fear while leaving his hands free for sword and shield.

This Orc is scaled, its eyes glinting in the darkness, the pupil flashing yellow as they catch the starlight; it grins, revealing a sharklike double-row of pointed teeth. Its weapons are crude, and it wears no armour - but the flexible, iridescent plating on its arms and shoulders, somewhere between lizardhide and a beetle's chitinous carapace, is strong enough to deflect a blade.

No matter. The Orcs have fangs and brute strength; the Noldor have tempered steel, and trained horses, and the intelligence Moringotto's creatures lack. Briefly, Fëanáro catches the eye of Estiel - one of the companions who followed him into exile at Formenos; who follows him to the gates of Angamando now - and matches her fierce grin before swiftly returning his attention to his opponent.

The night seems to darken further, a faint scent of smoke in the air, a feeling of dread; but the Orc before him lashes out at him, and Fëanáro focuses on its movements, pushing distraction away. He circles back on the treacherous ground before feinting, urging the horse in, stabbing for the pale unprotected throat -

He draws back, meaning to call out for a moment to regroup, pausing in their advance; suddenly aware of how far forward from the rest of the host he and his followers have come. The Orc-band is scattering in defeat, horned and scaled and spined bodies sprawled dead or dying on the uneven ground; around them, strange plants flourish, sharp-thorned, with an oily shimmer to their foliage. Not far off, a stand of white flowers blooms under the dark sky, a corpse-glow luminescence clinging to their petals: their scent is perfume and sickly rot.

Fëanáro reaches for the hunting-horn at his belt; sounds the sequence agreed to mean, _fall back to my position_. The air, colder than ever in Aman only minutes ago, is growing hot; oppressive and unpleasant, the weight of his mail heavy on his shoulders.

 _This is Moringotto's hand at work_ , Fëanáro thinks; and, _here is what I know of him, yes, heat, what are his servants, could it be, what is the next step -_

The others are directing their horses towards him, wary, swords in hand. He sees Estiel give him an inquiring look, strands of dark hair escaping from her helmet; her horse moving nervously beneath her, tossing its head and striking the ground beneath it with its hooves.

"Lord Fëanáro, should we - "

The flame-whip takes her in the throat from behind, searing, the unforgettable hiss of flesh cooking at its touch. She hardly has time to choke before it jerks her away, a bright line that pulls her helpless from her mount; snapping her head back so that she falls, doll-like, when it lets her drop, limbs ungainly, neck all one burned black wound.

Her horse rears, screaming.

Then the Valaraukar are upon them; and there is no time left to think of anything else.

***

"What _is_ it?" Tyelperinquar asks, frustrated, falling in next to Mairon as they ride into line; watching the other glance at him before his focus slides away again, eyes fastening on the horizon.

"Nothing," Mairon says, his voice level. "We're under the shadow of Melkor's fortress, Tyelpe; I can't help being a little distracted."

"You know, if you _tell_ me," Tyelperinquar says, "maybe I'd be able to _help_. It's just a suggestion, of course - "

Mairon glances back again; half-smiles. The battle so far had been - not _easy_ , never that, but not hard-fought; the Orcs fleeing or being cut down before the forces of the Noldor. Even more so, for Mairon, who had struck down the few of the Enemy's creatures imperceptive enough not to run from him with little apparent difficulty, a few snapped words leaving them twitching and bleeding from nose and ears.

Still, Mairon had been strangely tense and on-edge, inattentive, as if listening for a sound the others around him were unable to hear. Tyelperinquar observes him now, the tension in his shoulders and stance; resists the impulse to reach out and reassure.

"Have you considered - " Mairon starts to say, lightly; and then pauses, looking outwards again towards the darkened plains beneath Thangorodrim.

"What _is_ it - "

"There's something there," Mairon says; and suddenly is all focus, somehow more _present_ than before; his gaze when he swings back round to Tyelperinquar is forceful, the full weight of his attention set behind it. "Come on. We need to find your uncles, and move forwards, at once - I think Fëanáro's in more trouble than I expected."

***

Smoke, and burning; the air makes Fëanáro's eyes water, leaves him coughing soot even as he wheels his horse round, feeling the animal trembling under him, its flanks damp and foamed with sweat. He can hardly see more than a few yards away, other than where fires provide flickering beacons of light.

Block -

He raises his shield to fend off the blow, feeling the bruising force of its impact, and a rush of scorching heat that passes over him. Takes the moments required to sheath his sword, and twist round to pull a spear from behind his saddle; hefts it in his hand, despite the tremors of exhaustion that run through his muscles.

The demon is - grinning, he thinks, with a hot surge of rage, its mouth a bright-fanged slash as it looks down on him.

_How dare it toy with us -_

Even a Power must put on physical form in some degree, to affect the world; Moringotto's servants can be hurt by Elven hands. But the creature before him is - fire and shadow and suggestion, a column of smoking flame and a great wavering shape that moves within it, instantiated from moment to moment as a flash of teeth, a glint of burning eyes, a whip coiled in a heavy hand.

At his back, someone is coughing harshly; beside him, his liegewoman Tamandis is grey-faced with pain, still holding her own shield but cradling her other arm to her chest, eyes wide with terror. Fëanáro urges his horse forward, despite its reluctance.

 _Something coming_ -

A horn sounding; hoofbeats, voices, battle-cries. The demon's yellow eyes glancing over his head at something behind him, and -

The surge of relief that fills him is almost too much for him, overcoming him in a way that fear could not; he falls back with his companions as the banners of the Noldor come up around them, his sons and their followers, and some of Nolofinwë's following with them, Findekáno's gold-braided hair showing under his helmet next to Maitimo, both of them with swords unsheathed in their hands.

" _Father_ \- " Curufinwë is saying, cutting in beside him, relief in his own voice; and sheltered now by the ranks forming around them, Fëanáro allows himself to lean in, wrap an arm around his son's shoulders and tug him into a brief, precarious embrace, bumping his cheekbone against the edge of the other’s helm.

"It's well, Curufinwë, I'm glad you're here - " he starts to say; and then swings round, Curufinwë's gaze following his own, as _impact_ shivers through the air.

***

The Valarauko is larger than Mairon, not troubling to confine itself to an Elf-like body: facing him, it seems to stretch itself, vast, shadows reaching out around the burning core of its figure.

Before it, Mairon is - a bright, hard-edged presence, light that stabs at the eye and blinds, difficult to look at; a sense of power compacted, pressed down into an edge like the blade of a knife. Even Tyelperinquar can hardly stand to look directly at him: in a confrontation between Powers, Mairon shapes himself to fight, makes of himself a weapon.

The demon speaks. Its voice is the crackle of fuel upon the fire, grating and unpleasant, even the harsh syllables of Valarin distorted in its mouth.

Few of the Elves can understand the words it uses. But the sense of them carries out into the minds around it, despite the obstacle of language.

It says: _Is this the cause you have given yourself to, kinsman? What a low service you have found, at last._

"Fine words," Mairon says, unmoved, "from one of Melkor's creatures. Do you have no better work than to harass his enemies and command his monsters? What exalted tasks he trusts you with, truly."

Conflict. A pressure in the air, as if before a storm; a clash of power, experienced as heat and force and static along the nerves. Strike and retaliation, in an instant, leaving no trace behind but the scent of smoke and lightning, a blow struck felt but unseen.

The Valarauko - wavers.

"Go tell your master," Mairon says, cold with contempt, "that whatever errand he set you to has failed. Or stay, if you like, and ask me for mercy; I am certain you could have no better teacher than Melkor for lessons on how to grovel."

A moment of tension. Then the demon - laughs, a rough sound, like wood crumbling in the furnace.

 _I will go_ , it says. _But I believe I will have more to say to my Master than you think. Fare you well, Admirable One, until our next meeting_.

A jerk of its head to its companions, and it lopes away, the others following. The air cools, becomes easier to breathe; a sense of dread that was there fades away, leaving relief in its wake. Someone laughs, a little wildly; Tamandis, who had fought side-by-side with Fëanáro, drops her shield and presses her hand to her mouth, biting her knuckles to force down hysteria.

Mairon turns. The power around him - does not so much fade as fold itself away, pressing itself down beneath his skin until all that remains is a shine in his eyes, a shimmer in the air that follows him as he moves.

" _Well_ , Fëanáro?" he snaps. "I congratulate you on turning Melkor's trap back upon him so effectively; how _excellent_ a success this is."

Silence. Fëanáro meets his gaze, his own eyes blazing.

"If you," Fëanáro says, his voice a low snarl, "can bring yourself to look upon our comrades' deaths and say to me - "

"If I had not been here," Mairon says, cutting, " _you_ would be dead yourself, Fëanáro, and all the remainder of your close comrades with you. If all your strategy comes to is to speak high words about contending with the Powers, and then rely on _me_ to run to your rescue when you meet them - "

Fury crystallises in Fëanáro's face; he urges his horse forward, coming to face the other.

"Enough!" he snaps. "This is not Valinor; we are no slaves of the Ainur _here_. You came here as one of _us_ , Mairon, not as our keeper; and when you speak to me _you will remember that I am King_.

"Run to our rescue? How well _you_ have succeeded yourself, o excellence; but perhaps you think nothing of it if a few of us lesser ones are struck down - indeed, I wonder that you arrived here so conveniently, at just the time to make yourself appear our saviour - "

"Oh, certainly, _Tar-Fëanáro_ ," Mairon says, smoothly, his eyes glittering as he bows slightly from the waist, studiedly graceful. "I am entirely at your command, and will be sure to beg your permission before intervening to save your life in the future."

Fëanáro - outright snarls, electric with rage. " _You_ \- "

" _Mairon_ ," Tyelperinquar breaks in, pushing his horse forward. "Grandfather, I'm sorry - _Mairon will you stop and think about what you're saying_ \- "

Mairon glances round at him, almost startled. Tyelperinquar's mouth is a thin unhappy line; his eyes dark.

The moment hangs there. Nearby, Findekáno opens his mouth to speak; Maitimo, beside him, kicks him sharply in the ankle without changing his expression, though his own hand is clenched tensely on the edge of his saddle.

Then Mairon bows to Fëanáro again, more deeply this time.

"My apologies," he says, although his voice is cool. "I misspoke."

Fëanáro gives him a look still hot with anger, but - only turns away, without speaking, pressing his horse back into the ranks, gesturing Maitimo after him as he goes; but he pauses to put his hand to Tamandis' shoulder as he passes, the corner of his mouth flickering upwards at her exhausted smile.

"Are you - " Mairon starts to say to Tyelperinquar, as discussion rises around them, the signal coming to move back, away from Melkor’s fortress itself; but he breaks off as Tyelperinquar looks at him.

"Come on," Tyelperinquar says, flatly. "Let's go, if you can bring yourself to do anything a mere Elf asks of you."

"Tyelperinquar - "

" _Don't_ ," Tyelperinquar says; and watches Mairon's expression shut down in turn, his gaze turning cold.

***

The message comes as a scroll dropped into the centre of the camp, a winged creature swooping overhead and darting away again into the heights before the sentries' arrows can find it.

"Lies," Fëanáro says, contemptuous.

"And poor ones," Nolofinwë agrees, setting the parchment down. "Does Moringotto think us all fools? He spoke more persuasively than this in Tirion, when he walked among us there."

"Well, it worked for him before, I suppose," Arafinwë says, sitting with his elbows propped on the table, chin on his hands; Eärwen beside him, absently playing with a bone-handled fishing-knife as she watches the brothers. "It costs him nothing to pretend submission, but with much to gain if we believe it."

"Let us think ourselves wiser than the Valar in _that_ , at least," Fëanáro says, and rolls his eyes at Arafinwë's wince. "Come, Ingoldo,[2] surely you can give me this much: to release him at all was foolishness."

Maitimo, opposite Eärwen, pulls over the parchment and skims again through the wording, pushing a lock of red hair back from his face as he bites his lip in thought.

"It tells us very little," he remarks. "Do you think Moringotto wrote it himself? _For Melkor, by right King of all Arda and Eä, having seen the great might of the assembled Noldor_ \- "

"That nasty sort of flattery," Eärwen agrees, making a face. "He never thought _I_ was much worth bothering with, but you're right; I can hear him saying it."

"Well, enough of that," Fëanáro says, with an impatient glance. "Since we all agree that Moringotto has likely _not_ decided to treat with us in truth, let us move on to other matters - "

"Father, I think we ought to take him up on it," Maitimo says; and watches Fëanáro look back at him, an eyebrow raised. "If we have a chance to know where and when he’ll attack – and if we can get any information out of it - "

"There's nothing to say his envoy will know anything useful," Fëanáro says; but his frown is thoughtful. "Still, if we're prepared - "

"Oh, you are _not_ thinking of doing this," Nolofinwë snaps, Fëanáro's head jerking up to meet his gaze. "Haven't you managed to get enough people killed falling into _one_ of his traps, Fëanáro - "

All at once Fëanáro is standing, his hand slamming down upon the table, chair kicked back; his lip curling in a snarl.

" _You_ forget yourself, _Nolofinwë_ \- I have had _enough_ of your constant attempts to undermine every decision I make - "

Nolofinwë, very deliberately, leans back in his chair, looking up at Fëanáro coolly.

"Do you _really_ think that no-one ever criticised our father," he says, "or is it simply that _you_ can't stand to have anyone else point out when you're in the wrong - "

" _Brothers_ \- " Arafinwë starts to say, dismayed, and, " _Both_ of you -" Eärwen starts; but Fëanáro is already wheeling round, turning to his son.

"Very well, Maitimo," he says, ignoring Maitimo's own look of discomfort. "Let us accept Moringotto's supposed invitation to parley; it sounds a fine idea to _me_."

***

Asked for _stealth_ , Mairon looks as close to Elven as Tyelperinquar has ever seen him: more solid, made flesh and blood and bone until little more than his colouring marks him out from the dark-haired Noldor around him.

The others in the company are, at present, politely affecting not to notice as he and Tyelperinquar argue in undertones, the sound carefully pitched so as not to carry while they wait for the hour at which the parley is appointed to begin; and the signal to spring their own attack.

"If I choose to help you, it does _not_ put me at your beck and call - "

"So what you're saying is that we can't rely on you to help at _all_ unless you _happen to feel like it_ , and you won't even _pretend_ to respect our chosen rulers - "

"I _respect_ Fëanáro, but he's _your_ people's king, not mine - "

"So you're _not_ with us, then - "

The leader of the company, pushed past her ability to ignore the situation, shoots both of them a quelling look; neither of the pair appear to notice.

"Tyelpe, if I hadn't thrown in with your people's cause, I wouldn't _be_ here - "

"So you're one of us when you want to be, but not when it's _inconvenient_ , is that what you mean - "

Mairon makes a hissing noise of frustration; Tyelperinquar merely gives him an unimpressed look in return.

"Can we do this _later_ , anyway," he says, "this is hardly a good time - "

"I wouldn't _have_ to do this now if you hadn't been _ignoring_ me earlier," Mairon says, anger clear despite the quiet tone in which he speaks. "What assistance have I not given to you and yours - "

" _Did_ you delay?" Tyelperinquar snaps; and then lowers his voice as the company leader turns this time to outright glare at him. "You knew something was wrong _before_ Grandfather was attacked - did you think, well, maybe I should wait until he's _really_ in trouble, that'll show him what he's managed to get himself into - "

"Do you," Mairon says, very precisely, "in fact think that I am capable of getting your comrades killed to make a _point_ \- "

" _No_. But I don't think _you_ were altogether prepared for the Valaraukar, either - I don't think you'd just decide to let people _die_ , Mairon, of course not, but I think you might have taken a risk - "

***

"My Master," the woman says, with a slight smile, "wants nothing more than peace and friendship with you and your people."

Her eyes are liquid black, from lid to lid, without any distinction of iris or pupil or sclera; the flicker of the torches set around the meeting-place reflects back as red glints in their darkness. When she speaks, her teeth show white and sharp, the canines elongated into fangs.

"Excellent," Fëanáro says, unimpressed. "I look forward to the immediate return of the property he stole from me, in that case, and the unconditional withdrawal of his forces within Thangorodrim."

"Alas," says the woman. "Impossible."

She smiles again, appearing to feel this all the response required of her.

Her escort are exactly the agreed number of Orcs, hulking and restless. The air is tense with anticipation.

"Then your master's _friendship_ ," Fëanáro says, drawing out the word with a distinct air of sarcasm, "would seem to mean very little."

"Oh," says the woman, "it means far more than you know, Elf-King. Lord Melkor's favour is as terrible as his enmity. But given the choice, I would strongly advise you to prefer the former over the latter."

"I find myself unsurprised that the Enemy of the World treats his allies as poorly as he treats all others."

The woman shrugs.

"Ah, well," she says. "It's hardly my problem, after all."

"You - "

The Orcs move. There is fire rising up behind them; and the woman gives Fëanáro one last smile before her dark cloak is swirling out around her into wings, velvet-furred and black as she darts away, the shadows drawing around her to cover her retreat.

***

The signal for the attack comes, and they move at once, power rising off Mairon as he throws off concealment, radiant and vicious.

The first Orcs die very quickly. Then there is -

A shudder, felt as a jolt in the bones, a pain behind the eyes. The world is hot and bright and dazzling, hard to make sense of; the air thickens, becomes difficult to breathe.

Mairon - stumbles. Raises a hand, eyes widening.

"Well-met, kinsman," says Arien.

***

Maitimo presses his horse onward into the charge; leans forward and stabs down at an Orc as he passes, hearing its gurgling scream. Behind it, another bares its fangs - and then chokes and falls, a white-fletched arrow in its throat, their Grey-Elven allies shooting from cover.

The plan relies on _speed_. The Noldor are faster than the Enemy's forces; better coordinated, the Orcs having shown themselves prone to disintegrating into a clawing rabble as soon as battle turns against them.

 _Try not to engage his demons_ , Fëanáro had said, _we will find a way to deal with those, but not yet. Keep his lesser creatures between them and you -_

Even with ranks of the Orcs between him and the Valarauko, Maitimo can feel the heat of it against his skin. But across the field, Curufinwë is pulling their father up behind him onto his horse, as Tyelkormo cuts down enemies with easy, disconcerting grace; and _there_ is their uncle Nolofinwë, and Findaráto and Turukáno side by side -

 _We can pull back now_ , Maitimo thinks, _and then -_

The heat spikes. Maitimo has time to turn his head, and see the Valarauko's flash of fangs as it smiles directly at him.

 _It can't_ -

The whip strikes directly through an Orc, its head - falling apart, charred fragments of skull and a trail of smoke in the air -

The side of Maitimo's face is suddenly all shrieking pain, and the impact shocks down his neck and spine, for the endless instant before he passes out.

***

Mairon turns.

Arien studies him, thoughtful. She too wears something close to Elven form, but taller and brighter, her hair drifting around her like wildfire; and heat pours from her, until the air shimmers like water. Flowers blossom beneath her feet, their leaves iridescent as an oil-slick, concealing long, hooked thorns; they twine their way around her ankle, affectionate.

"Greetings, Arien," Mairon says, his tone pleasant. "So you _are_ still hanging around Melkor's following; I thought I recognised your touch about the place. How are you finding taking orders from him again, now he's finally managed to crawl back to his old lairs?"

Arien tilts her head to one side.

"I am," she says serenely, "grateful for the opportunity to offer my service to my lord once more. But I had not expected to see _you_ here, Mairon, nor in such company. Have you tired of labouring for Aulë in Valinor?"

"I would say that I found better cause elsewhere."

She smiles.

"A pity, kinsman, that you failed to come to such a realisation sooner. Do you regret not taking Lord Melkor's offer, when he made it - ?"

"Do you regret," Mairon says, still pleasant, "dedicating yourself to a master who values nothing and no-one beyond himself?"

Another dazzling strike. This time it is Arien who flinches, pain crossing her face, as Mairon blinks in satisfaction - but then his head snaps round as Arien recovers herself and smiles once more, her gaze falling past his shoulder.

The Elves with him have their swords out, facing Arien in combat stance, but they are pale and unsteady; as Mairon watches, the company leader, standing to the fore, sways and drops her sword, staggering back as one of her comrades moves to support her, sweat beading on her face.

But closest to Mairon, it is Tyelperinquar who makes a slight, pained noise, raising his hand to his face as blood drips from his nose, and touching his fingers to his lips to feel the wetness reddening them with surprise.

***

Across the field of battle, Nolofinwë looks up in time to see his nephew fall.

 _Maitimo_ -

A moment's horror: the boy he remembers cradled in Nerdanel's arms as a child dropping boneless from the saddle, his helmet cracked, as his horse bolts in terror.

Fëanáro is already shouting, and Makalaurë, closer, is trying to cut his way over, blocking a claw-strike from an Orc and snarling out a discordant phrase that makes it screech, bleeding from the ears; but the Elf nearest Maitimo is struggling to control her own horse's panic as it rears and wheels, and the demon is _grinning_ -

Then Findekáno is there, and Nolofinwë's horror for his nephew is suddenly drowned out by the fear that floods though him as his son catches the next blow from the Valarauko on his shield, the metal warping under the heat and pressure of the impact, calling out defiance as he raises his sword -

" _Findo - !_ "

Nolofinwë presses his own horse forward, hardly aware of Turukáno swinging in at his flank; seized with the sudden, desperate terror that he is about to see his son struck down in front of his eyes, and with nothing at all that he is close enough to do about it.

***

" _You_ \- "

"They really are," Arien says, coolly, "extraordinarily fragile. I thought better of you, Mairon, than to degrade yourself with these petty creatures."

Mairon - smiles at her, teeth bared and eyes molten with anger.

"I thought better of _you_ , Arien, than to abase yourself at the feet of he who crawled before Manwë and begged cringingly for pardon. Does it salve his pride, to have you wait upon his commands?"

Arien's eyes flare with rage; but she keeps her composure, tossing back her hair as if shaking the emotion away from her.

" _I_ will not be made ashamed that I have devoted myself to the greatest of all Powers. Where is Manwë now - still hiding in fear behind the Pelóri, unable to face my lord?"

The air between them is heavy with power; but no further blows are struck, though each stands tensed and ready.

Then Arien tilts her head to one side; half-smiles, conciliatory.

"But come, Mairon; Lord Melkor can be generous. Give yourself over to him, and you may yet find greatness and rich rewards in his service." Her glance takes in the Elves by him, lingering on Tyelperinquar. "Keep your favourites, if you like; what better safety and protection could you offer them, than shelter within the strength of He Who Arises In Might?"

" _Mairon_ \- " Tyelperinquar starts to say, pale and bloodied.

"So," Mairon says, still smiling, his eyes hot gold. "My Tyelperinquar's safety; and such of his family's as will accept it; and - what? You speak easily of _rewards_ , for one who comes empty-handed."

Arien smiles.

"Ask for whatever you please; and Melkor World-King will provide it."

"Generous indeed," Mairon says; and laughs, sharp with contempt.

"Is that how Melkor spoke to you, Arien? Fine words, and empty promises, from one who acknowledges greatness in himself alone? He always was a liar; and he has the _generosity_ of a hunter baiting a trap.

"It hardly surprises me that you talk of _degradation_. What else would one of Melkor's servants have learned?"

He laughs again, as Arien snarls.

***

Maitimo, _Maitimo_ -

Findekáno bares his teeth at the Valarauko. Massive, and powerful, and with that lethal whip; but even the Maiar can be harmed -

An archer, somewhere behind him, shoots towards it; the demon glances up, contemptuous, and the arrow falls to a trail of glowing embers in mid-air, the arrowhead dropping at its feet, twisted and warped.

Distraction, and Findekáno tries to push forward, but his horse baulks, tossing its head and refusing to close with the demon - alright. He swings down, landing lightly on the churned ground, and at once crouches behind his shield to block another strike, feeling the heat of it on his face, the force of impact that grounds itself all through him; hearing the metal protest.

Quickly, then.

Someone is shouting, behind him. Findekáno ignores it.

 _Brave, little Elf-prince_ , the Valarauko says, in its harsh voice. _Shall I give you a swift death, for your courage; or a longer one, for your defiance?_

"I am no cringing Orc to be cowed, demon," Findekáno shouts back, his voice ringing out over the noise of the battle. "Defiance is all you and your master will have from me, now or ever!"

Another whip-strike; but Findekáno has seen the pattern, and darts to the side, rolling under it and up again, closer, within sword-reach as the Valarauko recoils its whip in its hand -

He hears, quite clearly, the _snap_ in his arm as he blocks again, feeling it jolt through him, and the pain of bone grinding against bone; his shield breaking apart with a hollow sound as the hammer-blow of its fist comes down, the heat almost dizzying this close, making it difficult to breathe, he can feel his skin blistering from proximity alone, his vision blurring -

\- but there is the brief, hardly-noticeable opening in its defence, and he stabs upwards, into shadow and flame, and feels resistance as his sword finds at the heart of it the solid meat of the demon's thigh, throwing all of his weight and strength into the blow, even as the Valarauko roars.

***

Hope; fear; his love for his brother; his friendship for his cousin. Makalaurë sees the demon strike at Findekáno, the Elf facing the terrible fallen Power; and thinks, somewhere beneath all that -

_If I try to help Findekáno, I will probably fail, and we will all three of us die; but if I go to Maitimo now, I may be in time to save him, while Findekáno keeps the Valarauko's attention._

No time to doubt himself. Makalaurë swings himself from his horse and down beside his brother, his heart pounding as he pulls the cracked pieces of the helmet away and -

 _black void and starless night_ -

starts to sing, low and soft beneath the sounds of battle, controlling his breathing to let the healing-song resonate up from his diaphragm, tender and gentle as a lullaby; until even the Orc stalking nearer, poised to attack, stops and stands dazed and swaying, caught on the edges of the _live; breathe; be well; have peace_ that Makalaurë pours out into his voice.

The demon's roar crashes over the still pool of sound that Makalaurë winds around them; ripples and dissipates. Does Maitimo breathe more easily now? Perhaps - if only -

A moment to glance up. And -

Findekáno is staggering back, unsteady, despite the sword still raised in his hand, that is cooling swiftly from red heat to grey steel. _That will weaken the blade_ , the part of Makalaurë who once studied with Fëanáro observes; and, noting the way Findekáno's other arm hangs useless at his side, he prepares himself to throw Maitimo over the back of his horse and run, no matter that moving him without so much as a stretcher can only do more damage.

But the Valarauko is -

\- bleeding.

It roars again, and something echoes out over the battlefield, making the Orcs before it flinch and whine; and then - he hardly dares think it, but -

Moringotto's forces begin to pull back, in what is, unmistakeably, a retreat.

***

Arien shines with rage, a white fire barely caged into form, incandescent as a lightning-strike. The world around her is a poisonous, rainbow-hazed thicket of thorns, flowers blooming and withering and dying in the space of a breath.

"Oh, come now, Arien," Mairon says, honey-sweet. "Abandon Melkor, and you might yet regain some measure of your pride; or if you _must_ make a thrall of yourself, why, I am sure Námo still has the chains in which your lord was bound, and space enough in Mandos for another prisoner."

The force between them is half-visible, a prismatic sheen and a hard golden light, the grass around Mairon's feet starting to brown and curl in the heat as he steps forward, putting himself more directly between Arien and his companions; as he passes, Tyelperinquar reaches out, unaffected, to touch his arm, and they exchange a brief, warm glance.

Then -

Arien's head snaps round as something else washes past, a sound on the edge of hearing, a taste of charcoal on the tongue; and she hisses, even as Mairon smiles.

"Retreat, Arien? Has _the greatest of all Powers_ not had the success for which he hoped?"

" _You_ ," Arien snarls, "will regret your words to me in time, _kinsman_ ; and when you fall before him and beg Lord Melkor for mercy, do not think that any such generous offer will be made to you again. For a thousand thousand years you will regret this; and _I_ will sit at my lord's right hand, and you will have no pity from me then."

But she turns, and is gone, in a flare of light; and Mairon at once turns back to Tyelperinquar, smile fading and eyes dark with concern, while several of the other Elves sit down, abruptly, in the grass, exhausted and shaky, the company leader pulling off her helmet and panting for breath in the sudden cool of the air.

***

Aftermaths:

The healing-tent is well-lit, Fëanáro's clearest and strongest crystal-lamps donated before the first battle; the air within has a green, slightly astringent freshness, medicinal herbs slowly diffusing into it from a steam-basin in the centre.

Any Noldorin healer is experienced in burn-treatment, the inevitable accidents in the forges and glassworks of Tirion requiring frequent aid. In a curtained-off section of the tent, Maitimo sleeps easily, for now; song combined with lotions and careful, delicate surgery to piece back together the shattered bone and soothe and restore the seared tissue.

His face remains bandaged: healing drawing on the limited resources of the body, inevitably incomplete.

 _He'll live_ , the chief healer had said, professionally calm. _For the rest, the eye was too damaged to save; and there will of course be scarring -_

But it is some hours later when Nolofinwë leaves Findekáno's bedside and almost walks into Fëanáro, standing in the chill air just outside the tent and staring into nothing, his hands clenched white-knuckled at his sides.

Fëanáro, himself, gives no indication of having noticed the other.

Nolofinwë had, in the immediate aftermath of the battle, once he had found Findekáno and embraced him before forcing him to the healers' tent himself - _reckless, stupid, valiant child, what am I supposed to do with you?_ \- been very, very angry with Fëanáro. But any argument with him while Maitimo lay injured so badly would have been worse than churlish; and now, looking at Fëanáro's face, Nolofinwë finds his own anger draining away.

"Fëanáro - " he begins, hardly knowing what he means to say; and reaches out to rest a hand on his brother's shoulder, wanting to offer some comfort, if he can.

But at his words, Fëanáro whips round, seeming to see him all of a sudden; and the terrible emptiness in his face is replaced with fury.

" _Well_ , Nolofinwë?" he snaps. "Do you have more _advice_ for me? Have you come to gloat? Tell me I should have listened to you, perhaps; speak, o would-be King of the Noldor! Tell me how if we had followed your great wisdom the gates of Angamando would be falling even now, and not one of us so much as slightly injured -"

" _Fëanáro_ \- "

" _Don't_ ," Fëanáro snarls. He puts a hand up to his face, shaking; and Nolofinwë realises, through his own startled hurt, that the other is crying.

Impossible to do anything else: he steps forward and puts his arms around his brother, tightening his grasp when Fëanáro tries to draw away and pulling the other's head against his shoulder, carefully stroking his hair.

Fëanáro is all tension, shuddering as he tries to pull himself back under control; but Nolofinwë refuses to let go of him; and, at length, the wrenching, half-choked sobs start to trail off.

Eventually, Fëanáro tries to pull away again; and Nolofinwë lets him, this time. They face each other, Fëanáro wiping his face with an embroidered sleeve, looking tired and miserable; while Nolofinwë, himself, has no idea what Fëanáro sees in his own features.

"I'm sorry," Fëanáro says, his voice thick. "Maitimo could have _died_ \- people _have_ died - if your Findekáno hadn't saved him - and - what else could I have _done_?" he asks, scrubbing again at his face. "I _won't_ say we should have stayed in Valinor, we weren't safe _there_ , either - but Father, Father wouldn't have wanted the children to get hurt, no matter what had happened to him - "

"I'm sorry, too," Nolofinwë admits. "I - it's not that I knew better, Fëanáro, there were things I said only because I knew you would object to them. If I - if I'd really wanted you to listen to me, I could have said it all very differently."

He sees Fëanáro consider anger, emotions flickering across his face; but in the end, the other only sighs, still pale with exhaustion.

"Well," he says. "We need to decide what to do _now_ , I suppose - "

"Later," Nolofinwë says firmly. "Come on. Have you eaten? There should still be something in the pot; and then we can discuss things sensibly tomorrow, after we've both had some rest."

***

Tyelperinquar is, largely, recovered: headache and fever faded, bleeding staunched.

The tent is near-pitch black, starlight blocked out by the canvas; he sleeps for some hours, then wakes to find Mairon still curled together with him, warm and solid, breathing matched with his.

Still half-asleep, Tyelperinquar presses closer, fitting himself to the other - Mairon's arm thrown over his shoulder, his leg over Mairon's hip - and feels, as much as hears, Mairon's hum of satisfaction, resonating up through his chest and throat.

Easy enough, to slip back down into dreams once more. But his mind, restless, refuses to quieten; and he finds himself stubbornly awake.

Mairon runs a hand down his back, soothing, and Tyelperinquar sighs.

"We can't keep doing this," he says, reluctant.

"I can stay here as long as it pleases you, actually," Mairon says, amusement threaded through his voice; he shifts, the silk of his hair brushing against Tyelperinquar's skin for a moment before he raises a hand to push it back.

"No, I mean - I don't _like_ fighting with you, Mairon, not the way we have been, but - "

"Well, let's not, then," Mairon suggests, still amused. "There's no need to trouble yourself, my own - "

"Will you _not_?" Tyelperinquar snaps, in real annoyance, pulling away from the other. "It won't make a problem go away just because you don't want to think about it. It's - " His voice softens. "If you're here for _me_ , Mairon, then I - I know you didn't _have_ to be here at all, but I thought _you_ believed in our ambitions, as well, and I'm tired of having to act like I'm your _conscience_ \- "

" _Tyelpe_ ," Mairon says; reaching out, to run a hand through Tyelperinquar's hair, fingers settling against his shoulder. "I _do_. But your strategy _can't_ be to rely on me - if Arien had arrived when Fëanáro was trying to fight half-a-dozen Valaraukar practically on his own, all she would have needed to do is delay me long enough - "

"You never did answer me," Tyelperinquar says, "when I asked if you delayed finding Grandfather, yourself."

"If you think I - "

"You're still not _answering_ ," Tyelperinquar says, sitting up. "We didn't come here to rely on the Ainur for protection, Mairon; what are you saying, that we can't even expect you to _help_? You're in the same position as _any_ of us - if you think Grandfather's in the wrong, you should _tell him_ , not try to manipulate the situation and then talk down to him - "

"If Fëanáro gets himself killed he will _deserve_ it," Mairon snaps, pushing himself up to meet Tyelperinquar's eyes, a liquid glint in the darkness. "It's hardly my fault if your family insist on throwing themselves into every danger they can find."

"I just - " Tyelperinquar makes a noise of exasperation. "I thought you saw us as _equals_ , Mairon - that you saw _me_ \- "

"I _do_ ," Mairon says. "Tyelpe - is _that_ it? Of course you're -"

"Then _act_ like it," Tyelperinquar says, still frustrated; he props his elbows on his knees, running a hand back through his hair.

" _Tyelpe_ ," Mairon says; and sighs, leaning over to rest his head on Tyelperinquar's shoulder, until Tyelperinquar half-reluctantly relaxes against him, his eyes starting to close once more, breathing slowing as he falls back towards sleep.

***

White light, bright as Valinor.

His vision is blurred and partial; somewhere far away from him there is something badly wrong with his body, and a dim nauseous ache of pain held barely at a distance. His mouth tastes of blood and medicine, bitter and metallic.

None of this seems very important. Maitimo lies still for a while, drifting in and out of wakefulness, and a grey place where pain roils just under the surface of his dreams.

It occurs to him that this seems very much like the healers' tent, and hardly at all like Mandos, as it had been described to him: and so he must still be alive.

Maitimo examines this thought. Eventually - very carefully, hot jabs of agony shooting through his neck and jaw at the movement - he swallows, wetting his lips with his tongue, and turns his head.

On the floor, Tyelkormo is breathing slowly, head pillowed on an arm and silver-pale braids falling across his face, resting in every appearance of comfort; against a tent-post, Makalaurë is sitting back, eyes closed and frowning slightly, his fingers twitching as he dreams.

In the chair beside his bed, Findekáno is sleeping, head propped uncomfortably on the backrest, wearing the plain robes given out by the healers; one arm is in a sling, and his dark hair is singed and messy, skin pink with half-healed burns.

Maitimo manages to make a sound.

And, before his brothers wake and the healers hurry in, Findekáno blinks awake and - smiles at him, sweet and relieved, the joy in his eyes so bright that Maitimo can do nothing but smile helplessly back, even as Findekáno reaches out to take his hand.

 

 

[1] “Fingolfin” is the Sindarised version of “Finwë Nolofinwë”. The extra Finwë was added in connection with Fingolfin’s claim to the kingship of the Noldor – Finwë had apparently been king for so long that his name was synonymous with “King” to his people. Fëanor is therefore using the Sindarisation of “Nolofinwë” alone. The use of _fin_ as an ending rather than _finu_ is from Northern Sindarin as spoken around Lake Mithrim.

[2] Finarfin’s mother-name. Means “ _the_ Noldo” or “the wise”.


End file.
